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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977745">the second hand unwinds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks'>moonrocks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:00:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kendall has come to Stewy with insomnia bruised eyes more times than he can count.</p><p>(Set during "Pre-Nuptial.")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the second hand unwinds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Prepare yourselves for cheese. And thank you to Chelsea for all the help! Couldn't do it without you, bro.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>4 AM. Or close to it.</p>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="userstuff"><p>Kendall blinks and his eyes sting, pressure ballooning against his lids like his pupils are swathed in Saran wrap. He’s been staring intermittently at his email since he ended a call with his lawyer two hours ago, checking and re-checking his inbox until his tear ducts flood.</p><p>Back in New York, it’ll be nearing 11 PM. The bars and clubs will be busy, party-goers packing into bathroom stalls for a line before piling into booths for overpriced bottle service. Kendall imagines their hollow conversations, half-heard beneath bass-boosted Top 40 hits, and momentarily wishes he was there. He needs the ringing ears, the sweat on his temples, the claustrophobic brush of someone beside him. He doesn’t need the Egyptian cotton sheets pulled over his legs in an uneven heap, or the complimentary slippers, the emptiness, the quiet. He can hear the lonely ticking of a clock in the corner of the room. He considers turning the bedside radio on to drown it out with static, but he keeps his eyes fixed on his phone screen instead.</p><p>This bed is too unfamiliar, and so is the muffled glow pouring in through the window. Kendall can picture the reflection of the castle lights on the river, as constant and unbreachable as his growing anxiety. His exhaustion ripples like the water. It ebbs and flows, but it never overtakes him. Instead, it makes him restless. His bouncing knee shakes the mattress beneath him, fingers drumming arrhythmic beats against his thigh.</p><p>Kendall checks his phone again. More emails—because there’s always more emails—but none of them concern the takeover bid or the paperwork he’s been pouring over since the festivities ended. He counts the hours until morning, until the wedding, until the takeover formally commences. By this time tomorrow, his sister will be married and that bear hug letter will be placed in the hands of everyone on the board.</p><p>And, more importantly, the hands of his father.</p><p>Kendall can see them. Old, wrinkled, knuckles nobly and white like the knots of a birch tree. Open palm, closed fist. Kendall can already hear his voice as the blanched envelope crinkles beneath tense, blunted fingers.</p><p>Kendall rolls over, shuts his eyes to see if the pounding in his temples has stopped, then opens them again to the brightness of his screen. He texted Stewy an hour ago—a clarification on a few financing conditions, some terms he wanted to be changed in their statement to the board—but his message went unread. Kendall wouldn’t be surprised if Stewy fell asleep the moment they returned to their separate rooms. He’s always been the kind of person to wade through shit-smelling waters with enviable ease.</p><p>With a huff, Kendall gets out of bed. He pads into the living room, ignoring the mess of papers on the table and the printer hooked up in the corner ready to churn out documents, forms, and ancillary statements in the morning. The “ON” button glows a ghoulish green in the dark. Kendall finds his coat discarded haphazardly on the couch and pulls it on. He grabs the key card to his room, then heads out.</p><p>A layer of snow dusts the cobblestone like icing sugar as Kendall shuffles down the dimly lit path, bordered by a quaint row of cottage-like guest rooms. In the aftermath of his unsuccessful usurpation, Shiv made a point of moving him from the inner-castle accommodations to what he can only assume were the stables a century ago. Stewy had guffawed when Kendall told him, then suggested he hole up in the room a few doors down, but he did as he was asked. It was for convenience sake, necessary to facilitate their coordination of the takeover bud with Sandy. But now, with the bear hug and the wedding coinciding, Kendall is comforted by having Stewy so close.</p><p>By the time Kendall reaches Stewy’s door, snowflakes are collecting in misshapen clumps in his hair and on his coat collar. He can already feel the end of his nose and tips of his ears growing stiff. Through the windowpane, Kendall can see the lights are off inside, but he knocks anyway. His exhaustion and anxiety force his knuckles against the whitewashed wood.</p><p>He knocks, then waits, then knocks again. He expects to see a lamp turn on, or hear Stewy getting out of bed to greet him, but the room remains dark. The night remains quiet. Impatiently, Kendall knocks a third time. Louder, more insistent. He’s considering whether he should call Stewy when the door finally opens.</p><p>A light flicks on in the foyer as Stewy appears in the doorway. He’s half-dressed in black briefs and a knee-length navy silk bathrobe: probably designer, definitely expensive. It hangs open slightly to reveal his bare chest, the belt haphazardly tied around his waist. He looks sleepy, confused, but mostly annoyed. </p><p>“Ken, what the fuck?” Stewy says, his hand stalling on the doorknob. He runs his other hand over his face, rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Jesus, what time is it?”</p><p>Kendall clings to himself, hugging his coat around him. “Hey, uh, Stew.”</p><p>“Hey yourself.” Stewy squints at Kendall. He’s probably missing his contacts, the glasses he very rarely wears buried at the bottom of his suitcase. “What the fuck, man,” he reiterates, then his face is blighted by panic. “Did something happen? Did Sandy call you?”</p><p>“No, no, no—I, uh, no,” Kendall stutters.</p><p>“Cuz if the co-investors wanted to check in about—”</p><p>“No, no, Stew. Everything’s cool.” Kendall shakes his head. “I just, um, can I—can I come in?”</p><p>A pause. Stewy looks at Kendall with furrowed eyebrows, forehead creasing. His hair is mussed from sleep. It grows untamed and tangled at the back of his head as the curls return to their natural state, unmarred by gel and rigorous combing. Absentmindedly, Kendall remembers how they used to feel coiled between his fingers, waking up next to Stewy in a cramped twin bed and praying that his roommate was, in fact, home for the weekend.</p><p>Stewy drags his hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it back, but it only makes it worse. A greying strand falls onto his forehead. Kendall stares at it.</p><p>“Ken, we have a big fucking day tomorrow.” Stewy sighs and uselessly wrestles with his hair again. “You should get some sleep. And, y’know, let me get some.” He peeks over into the hallway where a clock is probably afflicted by the time. “Fuck, we gotta be up in, like, four hours, dude.”</p><p>“I know, Stew.”</p><p>Kendall tries not to shiver as the snowfall grows heavier and a gust of wind sweeps across the castle grounds. It rattles tree branches and rustles primly pruned bushes. His nose begins to run. He buries his hands in his coat pockets and sniffs.</p><p>“But, uh, can I come in?”</p><p>Stewy frowns. “You good, man?”</p><p>“I dunno.”</p><p>“Well, what is it?”</p><p>Kendall shrugs.</p><p>“Seriously?” Stewy rolls his eyes. “Ken, come the fuck on. Do I have to break out an alphabet chart or some finger paints so you can tell me what the fuck is wrong?”</p><p>“Uh, what the fuck do you think?” Kendall snaps, insecurity burning on the nape of his neck. He sighs. “Now, can I come in? Stew? Please?”</p><p>Stewy sucks at his teeth, but his irritated expression abates, wrinkled nose and all. Gradually, understanding falls in line to replace it. </p><p>Kendall has come to Stewy with insomnia bruised eyes more times than he can count. High school benders, finding each other as the club music pales, curling up on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar apartment. All-nighters in college, the smell of graphite on their fingers as they strip down in search of recourse before their 8 AM econ exam. Kendall has memories of post-graduation, waking up beside Stewy in Denver, then later in Shanghai. Married life, punctuated by coke binges and blackouts and contradictions. And Stewy, the only constant.</p><p>The weight of Stewy beside him, asleep or awake, has never really changed, but the weight of each memory—their desperate bodies sinking into the mattress side by side, intertwined, unwavering—settles heavier and heavier inside of Kendall’s head.</p><p>“If I say no are you gonna curl up and die on my doorstep like a fucking possum or something?” Stewy asks.</p><p>Kendall scoffs. “No guarantees.”</p><p>“No, sure, fine. Get in then, before my dick turns into a cocksicle.” Stewy moves aside, leaving enough room for Kendall to step into the foyer. He brushes past Stewy as he goes. “Did Shiv not know it snows on this side of the Atlantic? Or is the jury still out on that one?”</p><p>Kendall brushes snowflakes from his shoulders and his hair as warmth slowly begins to return to his ears and fingertips. “Uh, you’d have to ask her.”</p><p>“Well, the next time she gets engaged you can put in a good word for me, locations wise. Bali, Antigua, Los Cabos—”</p><p>“Dude.”</p><p>“Just saying.”</p><p>The door clicks shut behind Kendall. He shucks off his coat as Stewy deadbolts it, then ushers Kendall out of the foyer. The room mirrors his own. The living area is snuggly furnished, a modest bedroom and adjacent en suite situated through a door on his right. The place reeks of English charm: woodsy antiques paired with kitschy floral wallpaper, an old-style gas fireplace, a small but semi-functional kitchenette in the corner. Everything is awash in the burnt yellow glow of a table lamp, homey and overly welcoming.</p><p>Stewy looks out of place amongst the countryside quaintness as he pads across the carpet in bare feet. These days, Kendall doesn’t have many opportunities to see Stewy dressed down. Stewy rarely stays the night anymore. Sex is often desperate and short-lived, bathrooms and backrooms and brief stays at one of their many apartments. Undressing, redressing, leaving before the sheets warm.</p><p>Seeing Stewy in such a state of familiarity soothes Kendall. It draws him back to mid-afternoons nursing hangovers in Harvard dorm rooms, but Stewy still feels distant, posturing on the other side of the room.</p><p>“Want anything?” Stewy asks. “Water? Coffee? Or tea, seeing as we’re both stranded in a fucking misty moor of Brontean proportions. Or are you hungry? You might just be hungry, dude. When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>Stewy tugs open the refrigerator as Kendall kicks off his wet slippers by the door and sits down on the couch. He sinks into the cushions while his exhaustion seeps through his skin, clinging to his bones like chalk dust. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyelids heavy but not heavy enough.</p><p>“Got anything stronger?” Kendall asks.</p><p>Stewy peers at him from above the refrigerator door. He pauses for a moment, then closes it, never looking away from Kendall. Complimentary bottles of Voss water clatter against one another as the fridge seals shut, then the room falls quiet.</p><p>“Alright, better question,” Stewy says. “When was the last time you slept?”</p><p>Kendall looks at him. He sees the concern softening the lines of Stewy’s face, then looks away. A pang of guilt stirs in his chest.</p><p>“I got a couple hours on the plane,” Kendall says. He shakes his head. It’s a dismissal pointed at himself as much as it is at Stewy. “Yeah, but—uh, I don’t know. It must be the jetlag.”</p><p>Kendall shifts. He intends to stand, but Stewy walks over to the couch before he can. Stewy sits down beside Kendall, a comforting hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Stewy must be as exhausted as he is. His obnoxious ease—all outstretched limbs and swallowed space—is notably absent. He seems tenser, smaller. Despite their budding excitement, planning the bear hug had taken a lot out of both of them: getting the legal work in order, rallying investors, stocking the playbook with enough dirt to fill a grave ten feet deep. They know the risks. They know the rewards. They know what they’re up against.</p><p>Stewy sighs. His fingers knead into Kendall’s shoulder blade like he’s trying to draw the soreness out of an overworked muscle. Kendall tries to focus on the touch instead of Stewy’s eyes, seeing through his avoidance to examine its cause. Kendall can tell Stewy is stripping him down to his rusted parts and faulty pieces, trying to find a solution. He’s always been good at that.</p><p>“Is this about the—”</p><p>“Yeah,” Kendall says, nodding, then quieter: “Yeah.”</p><p>“Right. Okay. Anything I can do?” Stewy asks.</p><p>There are no solutions. Not right now, not before morning, before Shiv gets married and the letter is wrinkling beneath the weight of his father’s hands. Stewy’s palm stills on Kendall’s shoulder, warm and steady. His touch has always been gentle. Forgiving not punishing.</p><p>Kendall thinks about Stewy’s hands instead of his father’s. Fingers sturdy but uncalloused, nails well-manicured, knuckles sprigged with dark, familiar hair. Kendall remembers when those hands were much smaller. He remembers comparing heart lines and fingerprints on the playground, tending to shallow cuts with cartoon branded Band-Aids and juvenile jokes. For bruised elbows and scraped knees, Stewy was always there, a hand against Kendall’s back, fingers carding tenderly through his hair. In high school and later, Kendall felt those same fingers inside him, prodding into his mouth, pressing into his flesh. Even so, not much had changed between the touches. They had always been about comfort, distraction, Stewy pulling Kendall from one ledge and placing him on another he could more easily hold him back from.</p><p>Kendall needs that now.</p><p>“Maybe you could just—” The request hesitates in his throat, but the careful way Stewy is looking at him allows it to push through. “Maybe you could just hold me. For a bit.”</p><p>Stewy doesn’t flinch away like Kendall’s used to with family or lesser friends. No rolling eyes or sarcastic remarks to cushion the sincerity of his request. Instead, Stewy leans forward. His palm inches downwards to the small of Kendall’s back. He pulls him in.</p><p>“Yeah, man,” Stewy says softly. “Come here.”</p><p>Kendall scoots closer as Stewy’s arms settle around him. He rests his head on Stewy’s shoulder and slowly breathes him in. The smell of body wash and expensive face cream fills his nose, vaguely sweet yet recognizable. Stewy works his thumb into Kendall’s back, tracing the notches in his spine beneath his rumpled cardigan. The touch immediately placates Kendall. Stewy has always made him feel small but safe, letting him regress back to boyhood when these touches first became familiar. Kendall closes his eyes. He focuses on Stewy’s warmth, the familiar patter of his heart, his measured breathing. Kendall catalogues it in his memory for the morning. Between the wedding and the takeover, he doubts they’ll have a chance to do this again.</p><p>Eventually, Stewy pulls away and Kendall lifts his head from Stewy’s shoulder. Stewy looks at him, eyes creasing with smile lines, then he reaches out to cup Kendall’s cheek. His index finger grazes the shell of Kendall’s ear, still slightly cold.</p><p>“I leave you outside for thirty fucking seconds and you go all hypothermic on me,” Stewy says, then pointedly tugs on Kendall’s earlobe twice. “You really need to layer up, man. Scarf, hat, XXL ear muffs—”</p><p>“Uh, bro, I think it was longer than, like, thirty seconds,” Kendall says, pressing his face back into Stewy’s palm when it rests on his cheek again. “Several minutes, at fucking least.”</p><p>Stewy rolls his eyes. “Really, dude? You were counting?”</p><p>Time. Kendall takes notice of it again. It steadily ticks by as he lingers in Stewy’s gaze, each passing second accompanied by his growing apprehension. The unexpected acceleration of their plan has only worsened his anxiety, adding to his guilt for having caused it.</p><p>Whether out of desperation or a nagging awareness of what tomorrow will bring, Kendall reaches out. He curls a needy hand around the front of Stewy’s bathrobe, then leans in and takes Stewy’s lips in his. At first, Stewy hums in surprise, but Kendall quickly feels him smile into the kiss. It deepens. Stewy’s hands lazily move downwards to grip Kendall’s waist, fingers sneaking beneath his t-shirt to knead into his skin.</p><p>“I guess you can’t be that mad at me for leaving you out in the cold,” Stewy teases when the kiss breaks.</p><p>His fingers splay out against Kendall’s stomach. Kendall tries to find his breath, but his response still come out slightly strained.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>Stewy laughs.</p><p>They kiss again as Stewy gently urges Kendall into his lap, leaning back against the couch cushions. Kendall feels the heat of Stewy’s bare chest seeping through his own clothes to coil around his ribs. His heartbeat clatters against them, increasing with his growing arousal. Warmth, syncopated breath, fluttering eyelashes. Stewy licks into Kendall’s mouth and Kendall tastes the faint tang of spearmint toothpaste on the inside of his cheek. </p><p>Another kiss, then another. Stewy possessively tugs Kendall closer, but his movements are thoughtful and unhurried, like they have more time together than they could ever spend. When Kendall presses his teeth into Stewy’s bottom lip, overly eager, Stewy pulls away to softly brush his lips against Kendall’s temple.</p><p>“Hey, Ken, relax,” Stewy says against his skin. He sighs into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>Kendall nods. Stewy steadies him with flattened palms as he kisses down his neck, just barely nips at the skin beneath his Adam’s apple, then soothes it over with his tongue.</p><p>“Fuck,” Kendall breathes. “Stew.”</p><p>Stewy chuckles and it vibrates against Kendall’s throat. Eyes half-lidded, he lifts his head from Kendall’s neck to look at him. He runs a hand through Kendall’s hair, his nails making shallow divots in Kendall’s scalp. It immediately eases him, causing his neck to prickle in response. The heat pooling in his lower stomach spreads to the rest of his body, his limbs shedding their tension.</p><p>“Stay here tonight, okay?” Stewy says. “You’ll feel better if you get some sleep, I promise.”</p><p>Kendall raises his eyebrows. “That’s your solution, bro?”</p><p>Stewy scoffs. He runs his hand through Kendall’s hair again.</p><p>“People usually sleep when they’re tired, Ken,” he says. His hand stills on the top of Kendall’s head for a moment before he reaches down to pat his cheek, purposefully patronizing. “It’s, like, a basic bodily function, dude. You really should try it sometime. Works wonders for dark circles, and, y’know, staying the fuck alive?”</p><p>Kendall rolls his eyes. “Stew—”</p><p>“Ken, <em>please</em>,” Stewy pleads. “Come to bed. Big day tomorrow, remember?”</p><p>And just like that, it all comes flooding back: the wedding, the letter, his father. A half-formed protest dies in Kendall’s throat. His stomach sinks. He looks away, but Stewy follows his eyes, palm settling against his cheek again.</p><p>“Do I have to carry you in there?” Stewy says, jerking his head towards the bedroom door. “Cuz I will, dude. I fucking will.”</p><p>Somehow, Stewy still teases a laugh out of him.</p><p>“Okay, okay, okay, I’m going, dude,” Kendall says as he wriggles out of Stewy’s lap. “You’re, uh, really fucking bossy, you know that?”</p><p>Stewy lets him go, but not before dropping a kiss into his hair and teasingly pinching the skin above the waistband of his sweatpants. Kendall flips him off. Stewy only grins.</p><p>While Stewy hangs back to turn off the lights, Kendall finds his way into the bedroom. It’s not much different from his own: carpeted floors, a four-poster bed with matching nightstands, the walls decorated with uninteresting, inoffensive landscape paintings. Kendall is already missing Stewy’s warmth when he settles beneath his bedsheets. The scent of him clings to the fabric. Kendall resists the urge to bury his face in the mattress and breath it in.</p><p>Stewy walks into the bedroom a couple of minutes later. He sets a glass of water on the nightstand closest to Kendall, shucks off his bathrobe, turns off the lamp, then slips into the space beside him. They fold into each other, Stewy pressing his chest flush against Kendall’s back, Kendall settling comfortably into his embrace. Stewy finds Kendall’s hand beneath the duvet and slots their fingers together.</p><p>“You okay?” Stewy asks as he rolls his thumb across Kendall’s knuckles.</p><p>The touch brings Kendall back like it always does, tugging him through the dark into his memories again. He’s never forgotten how they used to be together, at ten years old, sixteen years old, twenty-two years old. Kendall always had tear-stained cheeks, tired eyes, his father’s voice swelling inside his head. More often than not, Kendall would find himself at Stewy’s doorstep instead of his own, begging to be hidden away for a little while. Kendall rarely missed home in those moments when Stewy was with him. Stewy always felt close enough to it.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m okay,” Kendall whispers.</p><p>Stewy smiles against Kendall’s shoulder then places a kiss at the nape of his neck. He yawns. His breath falls over Kendall’s skin like a warm salve. </p><p>“Try to sleep, alright?” Stewy says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”</p><p>Kendall nods. “Goodnight, Stew.”</p><p>“Night, Ken.”</p><p>For a moment, time seems to still in Stewy’s arms. The hours pass, the clock hands unwind, and Kendall sleeps.</p></div></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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